


If you'll be my boat, I'll be your sea

by SomeEnchantedEve



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, F/M, Masturbation, Preseries, Sexual Fantasy, Sibling Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2013-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 10:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeEnchantedEve/pseuds/SomeEnchantedEve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of unrelated short fills written for various <a href="http://gameofships.livejournal.com">gameofships</a> challenges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Branches - Catelyn/Theon

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like these are all a bit short to stand on their own, so I'm jamming them all into one story and updating the tags as I go along. XD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first Porn Battle, prompts: 'Catelyn/Theon, spying, hot springs, hair'

The first time Theon stumbles across Lady Stark soothing the aches of pregnancy in the hot springs outside the castle, it is a true accident – he is returning from a particularly intense sparring session with Ser Rodrik, and had no idea that the mornings that Lady Stark arises from the breakfast table with a grimace of pain in her face and a hand to her back that _this_ is where she retreats to. 

The second time, and every time thereafter, he has no such excuse. 

He likes to watch her carefully undress, glancing in each direction before sliding her robe from her white shoulders. He thinks she must not be looking _too_ carefully, if she does not notice him watching from the low-hanging branches of one of the nearby trees, the thick foliage mostly – but not completely – shielding him; part of him fantasizes that she does, in fact, see him, but chooses to pretend otherwise and put on a show for him. He is well aware that this is most certainly not the case, but the idea alone is enough to make his cock twitch so that he unlaces himself and wriggles a hand down the front of his breeches to wrap around himself. 

He cranes his neck to get a better glimpse of her swollen breasts, the curve of her belly that does not obscure the thatch of red hair between her thighs. He should feel foolish, hiding and spying when there is a bevy of whores in the brothel and certainly a number of willing serving girls in the castle itself; but there is something deliciously arousing about how utterly out of his reach Lady Stark is, about how _angry_ she would be to discover him watching her strip naked as her name day. 

She slides into the hot water with a sigh of relief, lifting her plaited hair, so that it rests on the edge of the pool and therefore stays dry. Her head lolls back, exposing the hollow of her throat, and she closes her eyes wearily, blind and deaf to everything in the world save the sweet relief to her pains. 

He strokes his thumb almost lazily along the underside of his cock, wondering how she would react if he were to jump to the ground and join her. He grips more firmly as he imagines the splotches of livid color that would appear in her cheeks, the way she would try and cover her breasts and cunt with her slim hands, but Theon thinks by the time he had stripped down and stepped into the springs, her protests would die away. He’s heard that women go mad for cock when they are with child, and he cannot imagine that icy Eddard Stark bothers once he’s put a babe in her belly, _she must be dying for a good fuck._

She would almost be relieved, he thinks, if he were to push her against the wall of the spring, reach around to knead her full breasts in his palms. He pumps harder as he imagines burying his face against her hair to smell it, and can practically hear the way she would moan when he thrust deep inside her, pinning her between the wall and his body. He could brace his feet against the wall on either side of her thighs, drive into her so hard that they would hear her screams of pleasure back at the castle. He juts his hips sharply to the tempo he would set, imagining he’s in a slick, hot cunt with water sloshing over the sides of the springs from the force of his motions, rather than pushing into his own hand. 

Theon glances down at Lady Stark with her head thrown back, and quickens his pace as he thinks that he would quite like to bite her there, hard against the sweet crook of her throat, roughly enough to leave a mark that she would have to explain away. He could do it right at the moment he spilled his seed inside her, and relish in knowing that she would never dare say that she had let their _ward_ give her the best fuck of her life. 

Unable to resist, he moans aloud at the thought as he spills hot into his hand, stroking himself furiously through the pulse of his release. And it is almost like his fantasy, when Lady Stark sits sharply upright, ears pricked to the sound, hands crossing defensively over her breasts. 

“Hello?” she calls, warily. “Is someone there?” 

It would be easy, but instead Theon drops silently to the ground, hurrying away before he can be discovered. He tells himself it would be easy and that the challenge, after all, is the greatest part of the pleasure.


	2. I am who I thought you were yesterday - Cersei/Jaime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the Hear Me Ship Lannister drabble challenge, prompt: 'Cersei/Jaime, disappointment'

A part of Cersei will never forgive Jaime for that day in the throne room.

She knows that a great many of people would agree with the sentiment, if not the reason. She cares not at all for the Mad King, and the vision of her golden twin slaying the old fool sends naught but a shiver of pleasure down her spine. No, it is for what follows that she condemns him – for the moment that Ned Stark ordered him to stand down, to _step_ down from the throne, and Jaime listened.

She learns later, not even from his own lips, of the crown that had fallen through his grasp, the kingship he refused and by extension, the queenship he denies her. She wonders what it would have been had he refused, had he claimed the throne as his own and she had sat by his side, his wife and his queen, his confidante in all matters. His perfect shining mirror – just the way it was always meant to be. If, but for a single moment, he had been all that she needed him ( _them,_ ) to be, instead of merely all that he is (and all that _there_ is).

She thinks it is the first time she is truly disappointed with Jaime, rather than merely childishly angry; it is the first time she feels as though they are two people, different and distinct, rather than one soul in two bodies.

It is in those moments when her disappointment sours into resentment that she takes others into her bed, uses them for what they may bring to her and hers. _You are my only love,_ Jaime breathes against his ear when he is buried deep inside her, in that moment when they are one again (but she cannot forget that moment when she felt them as two).

 _And you are mine_ , she tells him back, a sweet simple lie that falls easily from her lips. For she has her children, now, her golden precious loves, those slivers of her heart she has splintered off and given to them forever – she is no longer wholly Jaime’s. And for those men who she brings into her bed, she lays the blame as much at her brother’s door as her own. He could not reach out to grasp the prize, could not take power for them both; and so she, in return, refuses him all of herself. _It is a bed of both our makings_ , she decides, _and together we shall lie in it, as together we are in all other matters._

Jaime did not love her enough to seize everything for her, to _be_ everything for her, and so she does not feel guilty as she gives pieces of herself away as a lady will her favor. Together, they share the bits that remain when the world has consumed the rest.


	3. two can keep a secret - Lysa/Petyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the second Porn Battle, for the prompt "Lysa/Petyr, substitute, pretending, secret."

Even after so many years past, even with her sister now far to the north, out of sight and mind, sometimes Lysa still knows when Petyr is pretending she is Catelyn. 

Her biggest secret is that sometimes, she does not mind. 

Those are the times that there is almost a reverence to Petyr’s touch, when his deft fingers nearly quiver when he loosens the laces of her gown, his hands sliding along her body to draw her shift up but never lingering, never letting himself take into account the things that are changed and different from the girl he dreams of. Instead he presses his face into her hair, breathing in the scent as though to savor it, and she shivers, delighted, and reaches back to cup his cheek, to stroke along his jaw. 

Those are the times he is tender when he braces her against the desk, or draws her up to her hands and knees in the center of her luxurious feather bed, the drapes hiding them from view and judgment. He kisses her, then, wet and warm along her spine, against her shoulder and the back of her neck, and when she finally is able to meet his mouth, the taste is as if he means it. The times his mind is elsewhere (in a castle by the joining of the rivers, a long time ago) he likes for her to keep her back to him, but she does not mind this either as he strokes her hair and shoulders, calls her ‘sweetling’ and ‘my love.’ 

And yet despite his tender gestures of affection, he is rougher when he takes her, pushing hard into her, gripping her hips enough to bruise as he seems to try and drive deeper and further with each thrust. Her knees and thighs ache in the effort to stay upright, and without his tight grip she is certain she would fall, but the pain mixes with her pleasure, and she moans as he pants into her ear with each jut of his hips. 

What he whispers against her skin is a sound rough enough that it could just be a series of gasps, and not a name that is not her own, but sometimes Lysa listens and imagines what it would be, to be Cat, to be loved and wanted to such an extreme. She wonders how her upright sister would react to such a bedding, and she tries not to push back too fiercely. _Catelyn was always a bit more aloof than that_ , she thinks, remembering their childhood, how Petyr would always push forward and Cat would always draw away. He seems to enjoy her reticence; he moans sharply, grasping a hand in her hair hard enough to pull, pushing flush against her when she whimpers. 

The fact that his ministrations are not for her trouble her less than she would expect – it is still Petyr, still his hands and mouth on her, still him inside her, filling her and completing her. She cries out as he tries to move ever closer with a neediness that she misses, when he comes to her instead with a calculating smile and a cool gleam in his eyes that says he sees only Lysa, or worse, only Lady Arryn. 

The times that he pretends, he is once more the boy she loved in Riverrun, and it matters little and less that she is not the girl he wanted.


	4. War's End - Catelyn/Ned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the second Porn Battle, for the prompts: "Catelyn/Ned, insatiable, reunion"

They have left the candles burning, and though they are nearly down to the nub, wax running and light flickering and weak, she cannot bear to extinguish them. It is a silly thing, she knows, but there is a fear in the pit of her stomach that the body in the bed next to her will disappear if she cannot see him, cannot turn to him and rest a hand on him to know that he is real. And so the candles remain lit, even as they slip into a sleepy cycle of dreaming and waking and moving together, only to fall asleep once more. 

Ned’s arm rests heavily over her, his hand splayed on her stomach, his breathing calm and even against the back of her neck. The dim candles throw shadows over new scars she does not know on his skin, still pink and raw rather than white and healed as the ones from the war that came before. There is a jagged one that runs from the crease of his thumb to the junction of his wrist, and she had seen it at once when he finally, finally crossed back through the castle gates and came home again. 

Robb and Ned’s bastard son, Jon Snow, had forgotten themselves and shrieked their joy, hurtling themselves at their father, and for all of his formalities, he had clasped them close. Sweet Sansa, barely old enough to remember the man before her, had clung nervously to Catelyn’s skirts, keeping her distance until Ned knelt in the snow and presented her with a doll, and her hesitance flew away. Ned had kissed Catelyn’s hand in greeting and she had received him with equal courtesy, and pretended that she did not ache to hold him close. 

They had kept their respectable distance throughout the welcoming feast, the mere brush of fingers against fingers, leg pressed to leg as she sat at his right side, a reminder of the other’s presence. Ned had thanked his bannermen for their fealty and bravery, and she had smiled graciously, and she had not wept until she took him to see their littlest, another child born while he fought a war, another girl but this one with Stark features like his own. 

The door had scarcely closed to their own bedchamber when the polite masks of a lord and lady fell away, and she shivers now as she remembers the way his hands tore at the laces of her gown, snapping one in his haste until the material gave way. She had barely fallen back onto the bed before he was inside of her, mouth pressing down fiercely on her own. 

Behind her, Ned’s breathing changes and she lifts her head slightly. It is almost strange to share a bed again after so long sleeping alone, and it leaves her sorrowful for the time lost. But she can still tell the tempo of his breathing as he sleeps, can hear the shift as he awakes, and she is grateful that some things have not changed. Lazily he kisses her shoulder, the back of her neck, and she shivers again, every nerve ending alight and oversensitive. She moans low in her throat when his fingers trail down her belly and between her legs, exploring the sensitive flesh there, and her head falls back against his shoulder. She is bone-weary and sore, but the pain is a good one and in either case, overpowered by her desire to have him close, so that she pushes back against him when she feels his cock stir against the small of her back. 

His breath hitches briefly as he shifts and slides back into her, and it is almost too much. His movements are slow and deep, and with each roll of his hips she is reminded of the nights alone here, of holding court as regent though she was nine moons gone with child, of birthing another child alone and never knowing whether or not she would ever know her father. It had been far more difficult, this time, to bid him farewell, when he had not just been her lord husband Eddard, but her Ned. 

Ned pauses, and his voice is a low rumble still thick with sleep when he murmurs, “Are you all right, Cat?” She blinks, glancing down, and sees one of his hands cupping her breast and the other caught between her own, where she holds so tightly that both of their knuckles are turning white. 

She draws the hand to her lips, pressing a kiss on the rough-skinned knuckles. She does not share the fears she had harbored, the overwhelming relief to have him home once more, but thinks she does not have to when he pulls her closer into the circle of his arms.


	5. That's a Lost Boy (Oh, If He Were Mine) - Lysa/Petyr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Golden Ships Challenge - Day 3, Modern AU. 
> 
> Lysa/Petyr, (unrequited) Catelyn/Petyr, (background) Ned/Catelyn. 
> 
> Lysa comforts Petyr at Catelyn's wedding and dares to hope for something more.

Petyr will not be twenty-one for another three weeks – Lysa knows this, but evidently the bartender does not. 

He blinks at her fuzzily when she slides onto the stool beside him, and then turns his gaze back to his nearly empty glass with a fallen expression on his face. He smells of booze and too much cheap cologne, and rather than meet her eye he worries the fraying at the cuff of his tuxedo. It is old and second-hand, like so much of his clothing, but he had gotten so _angry_ when Lysa had offered to get him a new one as an early birthday present. He’s prouder than he needs to be, with her. 

“I can’t believe she married him.” 

The words are so quiet, so forlorn, that for a moment Lysa thinks she has misheard. “Of course she married him,” she replies, puzzled. “It’s her _wedding._ ” The very word makes Petyr moan, and he screws his eyes tightly closed, as though that could protect him from the truth of what she says. _What did he expect_? she wonders, almost too baffled to be hurt by his obvious distress. Had he thought that Catelyn would change her mind at the last moment? Catelyn, always the steady one, always the sure one? Lysa is the one who lets her heart lead her wherever it may go; Cat is far more… _well, she would say rational but I would say uninspired._

Petyr doesn’t offer her a drink and so Lysa orders herself a glass of wine. She sips it and sits beside him in silence for a few long moments. She scrambles for something to say, but finds herself tongue-tied as she so often is; when she looks over the rim of her glass at him through lowered lashes, he is starting straight ahead, a thousand miles away from her. “It was bad enough with Brandon, but I got it, you know?” he finally says, and Lysa wonders if he is talking to her, or to himself. “The guy was a fucking asshole but all girls go through their beefcake-lunkhead phase.” 

“Not all girls,” she protests, and she looks down at her lap with a flush in her cheeks. The wine’s brought color to her face and her green bridesmaid dress sets off the red in her hair. Her father had called her enchanting and kissed the crown of her head, but her only wish is to charm the man beside her. Surely, she thinks, tonight will be the night that he turns to her and realizes that she has been there the whole time – for years, for their entire lives - just waiting for him to see her. 

“But he,” Petyr continues, as though she has not spoken, “he’s so boring. He’s so… _ordinary_. Why does he get to have her?” He throws a baleful look over his shoulder, glaring with glassy, narrowed eyes towards the head table, as though the groom seated there might provide him with an answer to his question. He wouldn’t – Lysa doubts Ned Stark even knows that Petyr is alive, that he sees anyone other than Catelyn today. With both the spots beside them for the best man – Robert Baratheon – and the maid of honor – Lysa herself, of course – empty, the two seem even more isolated from the world around them. They look as though they couldn’t be happier of the fact. Catelyn’s fingers rest on the inside of his elbow, and their foreheads nearly touch as they lean in to talk quietly to one another, as though the reception is already over and it is just the two of them alone. 

“What is it?” Petyr presses again. “Is it the money? The business?” 

Lysa shrugs, irritated, turning her face away and instead watching the white wine in her glass swish as she twirls the stem between her fingers. She has long since given up trying to figure out what Catelyn sees in Ned Stark. He is certainly less handsome than his older brother, and except for today, Lysa can count the number of times she’s seen him smile on one hand. He’s far too serious and quiet ( _and dull_ , in her opinion), and yet Lysa is positive it isn’t the money – Cat has always been determined to make her way on her own merits, rather than their father’s connections. And besides, it will be Brandon who inherits Stark Enterprises, and so if she were really looking for money, she most certainly married the wrong brother. Money isn’t it at all – money wouldn’t make Cat’s face light up like a Christmas tree whenever her now-husband came into the room, wouldn’t put such a secret smile on her face when she would speak of him. 

“No,” she says, her voice clipped. “She just loves him.” 

A choked sob escapes Petyr’s lips, and his head falls to the bar top as though he were fatally injured. He looks so pathetically forlorn sitting there that instantly her heart softens – she can never stay cross with him for long. She scoots her stool closer to him, resting a soothing hand on his back. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see,” she whispers, and she resists the urge to put her cheek on his shoulder. “There are other women out there.” _There is me, there’s always been me,_ are the words that even now, she does not dare to speak. 

She’s loved Petyr for at least as long as he’s loved Cat, and Lysa cannot help but hope that with her sister forever lost to him – not that Cat ever thought of him that way in the first place – he will finally see her for what she is: the one who has always been by his side, his greatest friend, his staunchest supporter. 

And why wouldn’t she hope that it go that way? Why wouldn’t she think it possible? Hadn’t Cat cried for the loss of Brandon, when she had learned of his…activities…with Barbrey Ryswell? Lysa herself had sat beside her and stroked her sister’s hair as she buried her face in her pillow and wept. And then Brandon’s little brother had stepped into the picture - not as remarkable, not as exciting, but steady and true - and Cat had fallen head over heels for him. Why shouldn’t it be the same for Lysa? “There’s me…” she finally dares to whisper, and Petyr raises his head from his arms, his eyes damp and red, and he blinks in clouded confusion. 

“ _You?_ ” he spits in derision, and her face falls. But then something in his face shifts, and suddenly he is reaching behind her neck, pulling her across the small distance that remains between them, and he kisses her. She’s dreamed of kissing him forever, of what it might feel like, taste like, but now that the reality is finally upon her, she cannot help but think it would be so much better if he weren’t drunk. It makes him sloppy and wet, his lips landing on her chin before sliding upwards. His mouth is hot and open against hers, and he bites her lip until she parts them with a gasp and his tongue plunges inside. It is not as sweet and gentle and perfect as she always imagined it would be, but it is still enough to make her moan and melt against him, her hands resting on his shoulders. 

She whimpers when he pushes closer still, as though he would devour her, and with a groan of reluctance, she pulls her mouth away, panting for air as he turns his attention to her throat, using lips and tongue and teeth without mercy on the delicate skin beneath her jaw. His fingers slide from her neck into the elaborate updo that her auburn hair is styled into, and he grips there for purchase. “Petyr, my father…someone could see,” she whispers, and she does not know if she is horrified or delighted at the prospect. There is something so deliciously wicked about it, so dangerously romantic, and a shiver works its way up her spine. 

“Then let’s get out of here,” he replies, the words slurring together as he breathes them in the whorl of her ear. “I want to fuck you.” Ungraciously, he pushes a hand beneath her dress, pulling the hem with him, grabbing at the bare skin of her leg; this time, she is more worried than thrilled. She hesitates, her fingers gripping the lapels of his jacket, and his hand is moving higher and higher on her thigh, his eyes dark with lust as he beholds her. And oh, how she has longed for Petyr to look at her that way. “I want to fuck you,” he repeats, and while it is not quite the romantic declaration she has hoped for from him, it is still Petyr wanting her, and that has always been her greatest wish. 

With her heart in her throat, Lysa gives the room a quick glance – there is her father chatting with Jon Arryn near the back bar, and at the head table, Cat has still to yet notice Lysa’s absence. They could sneak away, not unlike Romeo and Juliet, just like all the stories she’s always loved. 

Petyr pulls his hand from beneath her dress and immediately, she misses the warmth of his fingers on her skin. He stands, swaying slightly on the spot, but then reaches for her hand, tugging her insistently from the barstool. 

Without another thought, Lysa follows.


	6. Water's Daughter - Ned/Catelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for today's Hump Day Challenge, found [here.](http://gameofshipschallenges.tumblr.com/post/61562556374/its-hump-day)

They arrive three days ahead of schedule, and so the yard is nearly empty when Ned and his companions ride through the gate. The household is scattered about their business, Ser Rodrick tells Ned, when he hurries down from the wall and calls for the stablehands to tend to the weary horses. Robb and Jon are in their lessons, the girls in the nursery with their nursemaid, and Lady Catelyn has gone into the godswood – perhaps to pray, the knight suggests, forgetting momentarily that the lady of Winterfell worships different gods than they. But despite Ser Rodrick’s misdirection, Ned knows exactly where his wife has gone. 

He finds her in the hot springs, shielded beneath the overarching trees of the godswood. While he longs to call out and greet her, the greater part of him cannot help but to stop and watch. Another man – certainly Brandon – would have already stripped to his smallclothes and joined her in the warm waters, especially after an absence long as his. And yet he hesitates to interrupt her peaceful solitude. As a child, Ned had not cared much for the springs; the heat had suffocated him, and the acrid smell had burnt his nostrils. But Catelyn had taken to them right away when she had arrived in Winterfell, and while Robb would nap, she would pass many afternoons there in those early days. The distances between the two of them had been far greater then, and Ned had been relieved that his southron bride had found something in her new home to her liking, some measure of tranquility. Even as the walls between them began to erode away, Cat had still liked to slip away from time to time, and he would leave her to her lonesome. 

Her dress is draped from a low-hanging branch, and she hums quietly to herself as she floats, her eyes closed and her face tipped back so that the sunlight dapples across her cheeks and over the crown of her head, setting her hair aflame into the thousand shades of the sunset. The long locks tumble over her bare shoulders and float upon the surface of the water, ebbing and flowing with the languid strokes of her arms, back and forth. The cloudy water obscures much of her body, but he can still make out the expanse of pale skin, of long, naked limbs, and at the thought of her soft, slippery skin, his cock twitches in his breeches. 

She looks like she belongs amongst the rocks and water, the melting snow and the looming weirwoods, and that stirs his heart as much as the sight of her rouses his desire. She could be a part of one of Old Nan’s fantastical stories, the last vestiges of magic in their world, etched into the histories of the north as though she had been born from those very springs with her fire-kissed hair. He could stand and watch her for hours, but she lifts her head and her eyes widen as they alight upon him. 

“Ned!” Cat cries out, her voice equal parts surprised and pleased, and she goes to rise before remembering that she is naked. She hesitates then, obviously torn between the instinct to come to him, and the instinct to preserve her modesty rather than run bare through the chill of a northern afternoon. 

He takes pity, and quickly approaches, crouching down by the edge of the hot spring as she swims to the edge. “My lord,” she says, her voice more composed now though her eyes sparkle joyfully, blue as the clearest of mornings. “Forgive me, we did not expect you for several days.” She draws her lip between her teeth, a look of discontent flickering across her face. “I wished to greet you properly,” she says softly, with an edge of regret – one that he wants nothing more than to smooth away. 

His hand goes to her hair, unbidden, and he winds a long lock around his finger. The bottoms of the strands are heavy, sodden with water, and the droplets run down his forearm. “I can think of few ways I would prefer to be greeted, my lady,” he says, a private smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Catelyn lowers her eyes and huffs in disbelief. Ned knows her well enough to surmise that she is reflecting on how she has failed in her duty, and he wishes he were cleverer with words, that he might be able to tell her the joy he took in finding her here, at her most vulnerably beautiful – belonging not just to Winterfell, but to the north and by extension, to him. 

He hears her draw a sharp breath in between her teeth, and the sound breaks his reverie. Her eyes have landed on his chest, on the skin at his collarbone, now visible as he bends down to her and his shirt gapes at the neck. “You’re hurt,” she murmurs. Her fingers, trembling, flutter up to touch the wide, healing scar that starts at the hollow of his throat and trails downward. 

She does not ask what caused it, sword or axe or bow, and he does not tell her. It is raised and red and angry, but it is in the past, and it cannot touch them now. Her fingers are warm and wet against his skin, and he shivers in a way unrelated to the tiny rivulets that she sends trickling down his chest. “I am well,” he assures her. “I am home now.” 

Cat’s hand wraps around his bicep, as though to tether him, to make his assurance a promise. She lifts herself as best she can from the water, and he bends his head to kiss her. She murmurs against his lips, her lips parting against the brush of his tongue, and she raises her other hand to grasp the back of his neck for leverage. It takes all his strength to hold her up against him, naked and wet and warm, and to kiss her there rather than tumble into the springs with her. He thinks of the stories he would hear as a boy in the Vale, of the mermaids of the Sunset Sea who would lure men to the drowning deaths, and Ned thinks that there are crueler ways to die.


End file.
